Headless Harbinger of Glen Cainnir 

by Christina Ciufo

 

 

Glen Cainnir’s evergreen moors

 

are draped by the banshee’s white veil

 

and clansman Ewen’s blood,

like River Irvine,

flowing from his decapitated head,

 

while it rolled down,

 

down, and

 

down the moors - 

 

staining the battlefield

 

of his irreligious damnation.

 

 

Full canary moon peers through

 

the night’s grey veil.

 

 

Fog rolls, covering the trees

 

and castle ruins.

 

 

Irish Wolfhounds howl in harmony

 

their foreboding lamentation.

 

 

Crows serenade a melancholy.

 

 

Thunder pounds in fours.

 

 

Clip, clop.

 

Clip, clop.

 

Clip, clop.

 

 

He gallops through the moors,

 

leaves rising from the ground,

 

making fairies tremble

 

with trepidation of his arrival.

 

 

Clip, clop.

 

Clip, clop.

 

Clip, clop.

 

 

 

Full of swiftness, closer and closer,

 

the headless harbinger

 

and his headless black stallion

 

enter and dissipates into the howl woods.

 

 

Silence broken by cackling,

 

echoing across the moors

 

of Ewen’s savagery for bloodshed

 

on the battlefield centuries ago. 

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